The palace of Trowulan stirred with a rhythm that matched the beating of the empire's heart. Red brick walls rose proudly against the morning sky, their surfaces glistening as if still warm from the kilns that had birthed them. Courtyards were swept clean, the scent of frangipani heavy in the air, and the sound of gamelan practice drifted faintly from the training halls.
Inside the audience chamber, Hayam Wuruk sat on the throne of carved teakwood. His figure seemed calm, almost serene, but his eyes missed nothing. The nobles he had ordered yesterday stood before him again, their faces carefully schooled into masks of loyalty.
The young king leaned forward slightly.
"You have heard my decree," he said. "The Brantas must flow with life, not with fear. Every noble house has its duty. Rice, iron, and men will be provided. No excuses."
A murmur ran through the hall, quickly stifled by Gajah Mada's stern glance. The great Patih stood tall beside the throne, his mere presence enough to silence dissent.
One noble, an older man with streaks of white in his hair, stepped forward. "Paduka Rajasanegara (Your Grace, the sovereign of the realm), our lands will obey. The Brantas will be safe."
Hayam Wuruk's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Good. I expect reports within seven days."
When the meeting ended, the nobles bowed and withdrew, their steps echoing against the tiles. To most, the throne room felt like a sacred place, a space where words could reshape destiny. But as the nobles dispersed, whispers slithered between them like snakes in tall grass.
---
Outside the palace gates, the world of Trowulan bustled with life. Merchants shouted prices over heaps of fragrant spices, women carried baskets of rice and coconuts, and children darted between stalls with sticky fingers from palm sugar. Traders from across the archipelago and even from distant lands crowded the market: Javanese farmers, Balinese craftsmen, Malay sailors, and Chinese merchants with silk and porcelain.
The air was thick with scentsbsmoke from roasted fish, crushed turmeric, and the sharp tang of betel nut chewed by nearly every passerby.
It was here, among the clamor of bargaining and laughter, that another kind of voice stirred.
"Have you heard?" a fishmonger whispered to his neighbor as he arranged his catch. "They say Paduka Rajasanegara no longer honors the gods."
The neighbor frowned. "What nonsense is this?"
"They say he mocks the temples," the fishmonger pressed. "That he believes only in his own power. How can Majapahit prosper without divine blessing?"
Nearby, a cloth seller leaned closer, her hands still smoothing bolts of batik fabric. "I heard the same. My cousin serves wine in Arya Wiraja's hall. He swore the young king has forbidden offerings to the gods."
The whispers spread like smoke caught in the wind, curling into every corner of the market. Some laughed, dismissing the words as jealous lies. Others frowned, troubled by the thought. Faith ran deep in Majapahit, to question the gods was to question the order of the world itself.
---
Back in the palace, Hayam Wuruk had not yet heard these whispers, but he knew men like Arya Wiraja would not sit idle. As he walked through a shaded veranda lined with lotus ponds, he spoke to Gajah Mada quietly.
"They bend their heads now, but obedience forced by fear is brittle. Fear alone will not hold them."
Gajah Mada inclined his head. "What does Paduka intend?"
Hayam Wuruk's gaze lingered on the rippling water, where orange carp swam lazily beneath lotus leaves. "If they whisper lies, I will drown them with truth. Not through prayers, but through results. The people will not ask what gods I serve if their bellies are full and their children safe."
The Patih studied him, silent for a long moment. He saw in his king a fire unlike the reverence of rulers past. No empty rituals, no reliance on priests. Instead, a razor sharp will that sought to forge destiny by hand.
Finally, Gajah Mada spoke. "Then we must show results quickly. Bandits must vanish, trade must flourish. Only then will their tongues fall silent."
A faint smile tugged at Hayam Wuruk's lips. "Exactly. Tomorrow, I will visit the market. I want to see with my own eyes the world they live in."
Gajah Mada's brow furrowed slightly. "It may not be safe, Paduka. There are those who would see you harmed."
"That is precisely why I must go," the king replied. "A ruler who never walks among his people rules only shadows. If there is danger, I will face it."
***
That night, under the flickering light of oil lamps, a different kind of council gathered in the chamber of Arya Wiraja. The noble's face was twisted with disdain as he listened to his steward.
"The rumors are spreading well, Paduka," the steward said, bowing low. "Already the market hums with questions. Some priests have begun to frown when your name is spoken."
"Good," Arya Wiraja said coldly. "The boy thinks himself above the gods. Let him feel the weight of blasphemy."
The steward hesitated before speaking again. "And… shall we proceed with the other matter?"
Arya Wiraja's eyes gleamed in the lamplight. "Yes. If whispers do not weaken him, then perhaps a blade will. When he visits the market, he will not leave unscathed."
He raised his cup of palm wine, the liquid dark as blood in the shadows. "To the fall of the false king."
The steward echoed the toast, though his hands trembled. Somewhere deep inside, he feared the boy king who spoke like a man possessed.
Morning would soon come, bringing with it the noise of the market, the scent of spices, and the weaving of lives both humble and grand. And among those crowded stalls, destiny itself prepared to test the resolve of Majapahit's ruler.
***
The morning sun was just cresting over the rooftops of Trowulan when Hayam Wuruk stepped beyond the palace gates. He wore no crown, only a plain kain lurik (striped cloth commonly worn by Javanese) and a light outer garment of cotton. At his side walked Gajah Mada, armored discreetly beneath his robes, and a handful of trusted guards who blended among the crowd.
For many in the market, the king's face was not yet familiar. To them, he looked like a noble's son, perhaps a young merchant come to inspect the stalls. Yet wherever he passed, eyes followed drawn by the weight of his presence more than the garments he wore.
The marketplace was alive with noise. A seller of satay fanned coals, the smoke carrying the scent of spiced meat. Children shrieked with laughter as they chased each other around baskets of rambutans. Traders argued fiercely over copper coins, their voices sharp as the clinking metal.
Hayam Wuruk paused beside a stall of woven mats. He ran his fingers across the rough texture, then looked at the elderly woman selling them. "How much for this mat?" he asked softly.
The woman blinked at the stranger. "Two kepeng (copper coins), young master. It will last through many seasons."
Hayam Wuruk handed her three. "For your craft," he said.
The woman's eyes widened. "Bless you, Paduka" she caught herself, uncertain, then bowed deeply.
Gajah Mada leaned in, murmuring, "Even in disguise, they sense you."
Hayam Wuruk smiled faintly. "Respect is not given by titles alone, Gajah Mada. It is earned, coin by coin, deed by deed."
They moved deeper into the market, and the king listened keenly. Whispers fluttered around him like restless birds. Some praised his decrees, others repeated the poisonous tales of Arya Wiraja.
"they say he does not honor the gods"
"but haven't the roads grown safer since his command?"
"a king who feeds us is better than one who prays while we starve"
Each fragment reached Hayam Wuruk's ears, and though his expression remained calm, his mind sharpened.
So, the seeds have taken root. But truth grows faster than lies if watered with results.
---
They reached the central square, where a group of children had gathered around a wayang kulit (shadow puppet) performance. A dalang (puppet master) worked behind a screen lit by an oil lamp, making the leather figures dance and clash. The tale was of Arjuna and Karna, brothers divided by fate.
The children clapped and laughed, though the adults listened with more solemn faces. Stories, Hayam Wuruk realized, were not mere entertainment they were weapons, shaping hearts as surely as any decree.
He leaned close to Gajah Mada. "One day, we will not only secure the roads. We will command the stories themselves."
The Patih gave him a questioning glance, but before he could speak, a commotion broke out near a spice stall.
A young man stumbled forward, a dagger flashing in his hand. He lunged not at Hayam Wuruk but at the guard beside him, shouting, "For the gods! For Majapahit!"
The guard blocked the strike, the clash of steel ringing sharp. The marketplace erupted into screams. Merchants ducked behind their stalls, mothers pulled their children away, and coins scattered across the ground like fallen leaves.
Another figure emerged from the crowd, pushing toward the king, a jar of oil in his grasp. With trembling hands, he smashed it against the ground, oil spreading dark across the dirt. A sparkstone gleamed in his other hand.
Gajah Mada's voice roared, thunder over chaos. "Seize them!"
The guards surged forward. One wrestled the dagger from the youth's hand, another kicked the oil jar aside before the spark could touch it. The would-be assassin was dragged to the ground, his face pressed into the dirt.
The crowd stared, their fear heavy as smoke. Some looked at Hayam Wuruk with horror was this truly the king the whispers had condemned? Others looked with awe, seeing him stand unmoved as danger struck.
Hayam Wuruk stepped forward, his voice carrying above the noise. "Majapahit will not fall to cowards who strike from the shadows." His eyes swept the crowd, steady and unyielding. "Those who fight for lies will be broken. Those who work for truth will be rewarded."
His words rang clear, not only to the people but to the nobles who would soon hear of this day.
The assassins were dragged away, the market slowly returning to its rhythm. Merchants straightened their stalls, children whispered of what they had seen, and already, stories began to weave themselves into legend.
Gajah Mada watched his king closely. "They will say today that you faced death without flinching."
Hayam Wuruk's lips curved in a faint smile. "Then let them say it loudly. Let every whisper of doubt be buried beneath it."
The sun climbed higher, and though the market looked unchanged, something had shifted. Where fear had lurked, respect began to take root.